Gazer
by Scruff the Rat
Summary: "You're not awake when you really do it. You're not awake when you see the night."
**Because I'm sick of Malachite just going on killing sprees. That and I've been feeling depressed and suppressed lately, much like Mal.**

 **I do not own Steven Universe.**

* * *

 _We're Malachite now._

 _Or am I Malachite now?_

Where to begin answering that?

Ha, where to begin? Where could she even end?

She embodied a cycle, and a cruel arduous one at that: silence, _rage,_ silence, _rage._

A living nightmare incarnate—and the worst part? It would only end alongside her for what else could more properly illustrate the warped relationship whose name she bore? Malachite did not just represent a cycle; she represented abuse at its fullest and most abyssal.

And if not, she damn well felt close to that point.

Yet she knew no matter how much she begged and threatened and cried, neither the blue nor the yellow would allow her freedom or peace, whether blue chained her down in silent reproach at even the slightest thought of leaving or the yellow berated her time and time again on her uselessness as a soldier.

Malachite always lashed back for she still had her pride as a sentient being, fragile as it was.

So often already she'd pulled and tugged and thrashed, all to no avail, her binds no less loose than the moment they first transpired into existence alongside her. Her fighting only tightened the shackles even more, tighter and tighter until tears of pain streamed from her eyes, her piteous whimpers her white flag. Only then did the chains cease hurting her, almost as if in pity.

An endless, callous cycle with _her_ at the center...or rather _as_ the center.

The direct opposite of the hurricanes, those massive swirls of air and water and energy she could sense marching across this planet's oceans towards their destinations. There the difference lay: their centers calm amongst turbulence; hers raging continuously, contained within walls of eerie calm.

Her imprints and scars along her body affirmed that fact.

Blue demanded her to stop. Yellow said nothing at all. She, herself, the toxic green with no home to go to and no comforting hand to fall back on, continued to boil.

All the while pasts that never belonged to her flickered like ignited gunpowder.

Being a fusion granted her enough access to the memories blue and yellow made no effort to hide from her. She knew how deep and far the misery of her components ran, just as well as she knew how severe their hate burned.

Not just towards each other, but also towards those who (supposedly) wronged them.

Crystal Gems.

Rose Quartz.

Yellow Diamond.

Homeworld.

...Steven.

All these names, all these meanings that yellow and sometimes blue demanded her adherence to, held no relevance to her.

She did not care, not anymore.

At first, she held some resentment towards the bearers of these names for playing a part in the events that led up to her miserable existence but the more she pondered their overall significance, over her own overall significance, all Malachite would think was: _Why do I care?_

It took little time for 'do' to become 'should' and before long the question no longer resembled a question. And so Malachite sat there on the pitch-black ocean floor, pondering and pondering over her lot in life, asking herself what she ever did to deserve this, who she ever wronged to warrant such a punishment.

Until one endless 'night' when the fusion realized: she never deserved this, did _nothing_ to warrant this. This punishment, this imprisonment, was meant for yellow, not her, just as blue never meant to have such a fate yet ended up with it anyway.

 _Yellow_ made the mistake of seeking to hurt this Steven.

 _Blue_ made the mistake of yearning for a home no longer existent.

 _Yellow_ made the mistake of fusion for her own ends.

 _Blue_ made the mistake of dragging this situation out, so trapped in her own mindset of prisoner that she could no longer see beyond it.

Malachite knew she should hate both of them—for creating her, for destroying her from the inside out, for objectifying her into a mere beast—yet she did not, simply because she did not and could not understand. Their mistakes, their realities, their experiences, their loyalties—these belonged to them, not her.

She had only her name, her existence, and her own pity. Nothing more. For Malachite was nothing more.

Four eyelids closed in resignation.


End file.
